Ten Years Later
by HollyRose2043
Summary: This short story explores what life after Catcher in the Rye could be like for Holden. And yes, *sigh* it is yet another product of one of those Catcher-loving English Lit classes.


**A/N: This is my first story; please review! This story is shorter than a stunted pixie. I would definitely consider expanding on it if I got some suggestions (nudge nudge, wink wink).**

* * *

I don't know why you keep sticking your nose in my business. Ten years, you've been at it. I bet you don't even care. It just kills me when people act phony and pretend to help. It really does. I find myself wondering about how my so-called "problem" has gotten worse, not better. Is it actually my problem, or is it everyone else who has the problem?

Fine, I'll quit fooling around and tell you. So pipe down already. Last month, I was at my "job", just like all the other patients who are required to have a real job. Don't get me wrong, I love writing. I really do. It's the people that kill me. They're all a bunch of phonies. For a special edition, my boss told everyone to write about their dream job. So I wrote about catching children in the field of rye. Recently, Allie, D.B., and Phoebe showed up in my dream, playing together like when we were little. It was quite easy to spot everyone, because you could spot their red hair from a mile away. So I wore my red hunting hat to be fair.

You know, the one you made me get rid of years ago. I still have a bit of the liner I saved. It's nothing much to look at, because it's faded and worn. Crumpled, from all the time it's spent under my pillow when I toss and turn at night. Threadbare too, from all the times I've rubbed and worried it in my pocket when someone was being particularly phony. It's nothing like the color it used to be. But it's all I have.

So I spent an hour or two on this article. I really tried to spiff it up so I could get across my dream to everyone who would read it, even the phonies. I thought I did a pretty cool job, but my boss exploded after he read it. I had anticipated seeing him toss it on my desk and grunt in satisfaction, as per usual. So I was surprised as, line by line, his neck turned red and his veins bulged in his temples. His piggish eyes switched from indifference to confusion, to rage. His cigar, which had glowed red and fat as it belched clouds of acrid smoke, now lay forgotten on the dingy tile floor, its end bitten off in his rage. When he couldn't read another line, he began to swear loudly, quieting the whole floor in mere seconds. He roared, "For Chrissake, Caulfield, this is about a goddam wheat field!"

"It's a field of rye. So what?" I was starting to get angry. I really was. I had a feeling this was going the same place it had gone ten years ago.

"So _what_? So _what, _you say? I told you to write about your dream job, not a field of wheat! " His face was turning purple, and he waved his sausage fingers expressively.

I stubbornly insisted, "It's rye, not wheat. What if a field of rye _is_ my dream job?" I was starting to lose my cool too. By now, everyone in the office had stopped working and was openly staring.

"Goddam it Caulfield, no one wants to read about a wheat field!" His fist came down on my desk. "No one cares about your dream job! Rewrite it and tell me what people want to hear, like how you always wanted to be a musician, a bank manager, or some crap like that. Have it on my desk before you leave today—and it better not have any wheat fields in it." I seethed quietly as we both stood up. Now that he had effectively ground my dreams into the dirt, he was complacent, and started to waddle slowly to the door. That waddle just about killed me.

I couldn't contain myself any longer. At his back, I shouted, "It's a field of rye, goddam it!" He turned around, surprised. My mind went blank and I imagined I was back in my old Pencey dorm room. I didn't see the complacent face of my boss. Instead, I saw Stradlater in my hound's tooth jacket. So I punched him in his bloated stomach as hard as I could, and felt immensely satisfied as the other end of his cigar shot out of his mouth and he doubled over in pain and surprise. I picked up my coat and stormed out, locking my office door from the outside.

I ignored the other employees, who were pretending to work, innocently oblivious to the ordeal happening. At the main door I turned around and yelled at the receptionist, "I quit, ya lousy bunch a phonies!" before slamming the door in her shocked face and calling a cab.

The cab driver was gruff and unsociable, so we sat in silence while he drove me to the nearest bar. I was probably too lost in what I had done to talk to him anyway.

The bar was just like any other bar I've gone to, and even had a telephone. I decided I'd give old Phoebe a buzz. The phone rang several times before anyone answered. A stranger with a deep voice asked who was there.

"Can I speak to Phoebe? Tell her it's her brother, Holden." I was surprised, and wondered who that guy was. Phoebe answered, sounding a bit rushed. "Holden, can this wait until tomorrow? I've got a date tonight."

I was surprised, and a bit hurt. "I guess it can wait but—"

"Okay, good. Bye Holden."

"Wait—" she hung up on me. I listened to the lonely silence for a minute. Phoebe had never passed up a chance to talk to me before. I never thought she'd have a boyfriend either. I thought about calling her back and telling her he wasn't worth it, but I knew that would just hurt Phoebe. It still depressed the hell out of me though. It really did.

Instead, I ordered a drink and replayed the afternoon in my head. I added a gunfight between the receptionist and me to keep myself interested. I could almost feel the warm blood trickling down my chest. Boy, that receptionist sure had good aim.

Several hours and many more drinks later, I lurched outside to call a cab. As the world blurred and spun, I realized I wasn't as good at holding my liquor as I used to be.

I got in the cab and mumbled the address of this place. The cab driver made me repeat myself, so I changed my mind. "Got any big parks around here?"

"Yeah, Mac, on every corner." was the sarcastic reply.

"Drop me off at one with a pond." I stumbled out of the cab after paying and flopped down in the grass on the side of the pond. Before passing out, I noticed groggily that this pond had ducks, even though it was the middle of winter. A smile spread across my face as stars bloomed and everything faded to black.

When I woke up, I was back here, and I haven't been allowed to leave since then. Ya happy? Now you know all my business and can pretend you care. Now leave me alone.

* * *

**A/N**: **Still not reviewing? *cue sad music* In the far off land of imagination, homeless orphaned story ideas are being neglected. They spend their days wondering if they shall ever be written and truly appreciated. YOU can help. With just one click of the mouse, you can submit a review, saving countless abandoned plot threads. YOU are their hope. Donate a review today.**


End file.
